Saturday Sillies: Locust Theatre Presents -- The Princess Bride

Thank you Rob Reiner and William Goldman for one of my favorite movies. Please forgive me for the liberties I am about to take with it...

Locust Theatre Presents "The Princess Bride"

"Has it got any sports in it?"



"Farm boy, get me that pitcher!"
"As you wish"



“Do you want me to send you back to where you were... unemployed... in GREENLAND?!”



“INCONCEIVABLE!”
“You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never to get involved in a land war in Asia. And only slightly less well known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!”



“Mawwage is what bwings us togwether today....”



"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!!"



There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C. ... (before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy...Well, this one left them all behind.

Gathering

The cooler weather that signals fall's approach brought billows of fog to Iron Acres yesterday morning.  The dew on this cobweb testifies that fall's friend, winter, will not be far behind.



On the way home from work, I spied busy farmers mowing fields and gathering in the last cutting of hay.



A neighbor's farm is experiencing an explosion in the poultry population. Mother hens are gathering their newly hatched chicks underneath them in barn and barnyard.



Honeybees and bumble bees are buzzing 'round the goldenrod, gathering nectar and pollen for winter food.



All too soon the blue sky will be robed in winter gray.



So I too am gathering...memories of precious Sprittles on sunny beaches, brilliant butterflies on flowering Texas sage, summer warmth and green, family times together. I'm wrapping them all in lavender wands to pull out on the bleak days ahead to remind me... of the spring to come.

Letting Go

I will admit to being a pack rat, a habit I'm trying to change.

Stuff binds us.

Although I know there is more peace, more freedom with less, I still have a problem letting go, learning that it's the memory, not the thing itself, that is worth holding onto.



This was my ancestral home in Texas, a picture taken by my Dad, an amateur photographer, the year of the great snow in Houston (his shadow is in the bottom center of the photo.) It is the house Mom and Dad built as newlyweds, the home they held onto when times were hard, the place where they raised two independent, "cotton pickin' brats", (as Dad lovingly referred to my younger sister and myself) their shelter as they grew old together.

The garage in whose darkroom corner I watched pictures appear magically on photo paper is no longer there, a victim of a tree thrown by Ike's raging winds. Only a beaten, cracked concrete slab bears testimony that it once existed.

That, and my memory.

In the house, the closet, which my sister and I shared along with a tiny bedroom, bears dated penciled lines that grew with us. We discussed rescuing the molding, that family heirloom chronicling our lives, but we have so much already.

Rich memories of Dad returning from a weary day looking for a job, yet taking time to crawl on hands and knees from the living room to our bedroom, gently carrying the pretend cowgirls on their pretend horse.

The wonderful smell of fresh bread baking in the old O'Keefe and Merritt gas range in the kitchen. Mom was not a great cook, but she did some serious baking on that stove, especially at Christmas.

Oh, the Christmas mornings, meals around the small kitchen table, practical jokes, laughter, tears. Sights and sounds and smells rush back into my mind.

The fireplug we gingerly played on and around. No ordinary fireplug, it served as a cow for roping practice, a crow's nest from which to view new worlds to conquer, a place to sit and contemplate life.



Yesterday, at 3:30 in the afternoon, the deed to that house passed into the hands of someone else. This little house, our childhood ark, our legacy, was sold, the key turned in the old lock for the last time and surrendered to the new owner.



Perhaps they will make memories of their own, add several coats of new paint, repair old tile and flooring. Perhaps they will demolish the house and start all over.

I do know this, it was a great place to spend my childhood. A cup full of experience and love. Memories I will pass on to my children, and my children's children.

Memories too precious to let go.

(Thank you, Principessa, for the pictures of the magical fireplug and back door.)

Can You Feel It?

Can you feel it? Fall is in the air. The ripening ears of corn stand in green soldier rows, almost ready for harvest. They're everywhere I look.

On the way home.



Across the road.



Along the Wendy's parking lot.



Their green and golden connect earth to the blue and white sky, and make me smile.



Fall is in the air. Can you feel it?

Sunset on Sky Watch Friday

I don't remember seeing that many sunsets as a child.  I think I was probably too busy burning up the last inches of daylight with play.  I have more time now, more opportunity to watch the sun quench its golden blaze in the horizon.



In the last 18 years at Iron Acres, I've watched many a sunset from this window. Some are more spectacular than others. On this night, the sun's flames licked the side of our house, gazing at its own image in our windows as the clouds chased it down.



Caught in an act of vanity, like a self conscious child it tried to hide behind a tree. I had been standing in our field, so I turned back to watch the display on the window. Actually, I ran from the field toward the house to catch the sun before it escaped.



Perhaps I still am burning up the last few inches of daylight in play. Only this time out, it's hide and seek with the sun!

You can seek out more more glimpses of sun and sky from all over the planet here.

Barnstorming for Sky Watch Friday

There is just something about a barn that shouts character and charm for me. Maybe it's the association with horses and sawdust, leather and weathered wood, or hay and grain. A barn is a feast for the senses.



I love living in the country and watching how the seasons stitch the hues of planting, cultivating and harvest together to form nature's own quilt out of reds, blues, yellows, greens.

The colors of the rainbow.



And in and around it all is the barn. My city childhood was often lost in dreams of playing in a barn loft, hiding in the hay, hearing the crunching sounds of a hungry horse meditatively chewing timothy hay below. We have a small barn here at Iron Acres. In the last 17 years it has known the joy of kidding, kittens, hatching peeps, escaped bunny corralling, and endless rounds of storing hay up for the winter and feeding it out until spring.



Our little barn is empty now, but the loft is still a wonderful place to hide...



...and to dream...

(for more pictures of dreamy skies from all over the earth, dream awhile at Sky Watch Friday.)

McConnell's Mill

I love water,



I love sky,



and I love bright colors.

It's such a treat to find them all together (and an old mill, and a covered bridge, oh my!). My OR(off roading) BFF, her dog Kolby and I went on a little explore in the woods at McConnell's Mill yesterday. It was my first visit there, and it was awesome! Why I hadn't made it there sooner, I'll never know.

The water was still, the sky was blue, and we happened upon some kayakers.



They certainly make it look easy, and a lot of fun. But I was assured this is no course for beginners. Those still waters go over a dam and then grow very agitated.

And there are rocks. Lots of rocks. Mossy covered rocks, slippery stepping stones, huge boulders, rock caves. We marveled at the abundance of huge trees that had found a way to root themselves in and among those rocks.





It's a geological wonderland.

More glimpses to come.

The Most Beautiful Beagle in the World

Say hello to the most beautiful Beagle in the world.



At least that's what his BFF, a tall, dark, and handsome grad student thinks about Jack. I met Jack and his BFF, John, on their way from Louisiana to Long Island.

Jack was all "I've got some important sniffing business to do" when we first met, but he settled down for a brief interview.



Me. So, Jack, what's it like bearing the burden of that title, "The Most Beautiful Beagle in the World"?
Jack. It's tough, but I suppose someone has to do it. Did you get my profile?



Me. Is it true that all your personal belongings bear the inscription, "Please return to Jack"?
Jack. Yes, and so does my BFF.

Me. Inquiring minds want to know. Do you have a steady girlfriend?
Jack. I prefer to keep my personal life private.



Me. I was just asking because my BFF is Misty the Freecycle Wonder Dog, and I thought you two might hit it off.
Jack. Leave me her number and I might call.



I then swapped my interviewer hat for my photographer hat and snapped a few. Jack was rather anxious to get back to some serious sniffing.

Of course, this interview did not come cheaply. Celebrity interviews of this caliber are rather expensive.



Jack agreed to be paid in tummy rubs.



Jack really enjoys his tummy rubs.



I bet all the Beaglettes on Long Island are sighing right now.

Still Wondering

When I was a child there were only seven world wonders. Now, I believe, there are more. I have no idea where this one ranks, but for me it would make the top ten.



No, I am not talking about the ocean, although it is pretty amazing. (Somebody please cue Neil Diamond) I'm talking about this:



Anyone out there old enough to remember Richard Bach's "Jonathan Livingston Seagull"? Please don't jump to conclusions. I am not yet at that wonder about which I was talking. (my English teacher would be so proud.)



We saw some gigantic seagulls on the North Carolina Beach last week. In fact, we almost had a Hitchcockian "The Birds" moment when some hungry feathered "friends" went for the cracker crumbs Colonel Mustard (our littlest Sprittle) was dribbling onto the towel. I want to assure you that swift action by Principessa and Beautiful Mommy avoided the unthinkable.


(shameless grandbaby plug.)

We took great delight in throwing bits of bread to the seagulls on Galveston Island during our jaunts to the beach in my childhood. Imagine playing frisbee with a dog and substitute bread for the frisbee and a bird for the dog.



So, I am not a stranger to seagulls. (*reader alert* I am finally getting to the subject at hand!) What I don't understand, though, is why I would find a bunch of seagulls hovering over a Sheetz parking lot on a busy street corner in the middle of Pennsylvania.



Why is the word "sea" part of their name when they can be found away from it? For me that qualifies as a world wonder.

At least, I'm still wondering.

Watching the Skies on Friday

(We interrupt your previously scheduled programming of pirates and Sprittles and castaways to bring you this important announcement.)

Today I'm participating in Sky Watch Friday. You can take a gander at skies from Malaysia to Michigan, Timbuktu to Texas, by clicking here.

In the meantime, this is a view of the sky outside my window in our western Pennsylvania part of the Frozen North, presented as a public service for my friends back in Texas, where it is really hot and dry.(have I told you how hot and dry it is in Texas?) I thought they might appreciate a reminder of what rain looks like so that when it finally shows up again down there they won't be wondering what it is. (L--If I could put this in a box and send it to you I would. Honest.)

It came from the west one afternoon...



...and then it moved on,



leaving this behind:



I love the sky! And I hope it rains in Central Texas real soon.

Shipwrecked, Part 2

Pirates have never piqued my curiousity, although as a teenager I loved the DuMaurier novel "Frenchman's Creek" about a bored, independently wealthy, headstrong woman who falls in love with a French pirateer. (I will admit to being headstrong, but I think my Dear Professor need not fear abandonment as I am neither bored nor independently wealthy, and we don't see many French pirates in this corner of the Frozen North, although there was that one reality challenged individual who claimed he had found some loot buried near here...)

Anyway, our eldest Sprittle, Boo, was very taken with the whole Blackbeard/pirate thing on our recent vacay on the North Carolina shore. He had us all saying things like "arrrrr matey" and sounding like Robert Newton in "Treasure Island" before the week was over. He was very proud of what he called his pirate glasses.



I have absolutely no idea why I am telling you all this other than it was floating at the top of my mind this morning and I needed to do something with it before I get on with my tale about being shipwrecked. Oh, and I suppose it was also a thinly veiled excuse to post a picture of one of our precious Sprittles. I am a grandmother, remember?

As I was reading the guest book, I found an older entry stuck between the pages. It was obviously well worn, and spoke of earlier times on the North Carolina coast. Times that predated our lovely rental cottage and civilization. Darker times.



The entry began, "April 3, 1973. Still no sign of any boats, just the relentless sea pounding away at the shore and in my head." The writer went on the chronicle the lack of food, the questionable water supply, the declining health of fellow survivors.



"I'm afraid Jebediah might have the consumption. His raspy coughing haunts me in my fitful sleep." Jebediah's death soon followed, and, unfortunately, the hint that his remains may have been gruesomely "recycled" in a way reminiscent of the Donner party. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Strains of "Ashokan's Farewell" played in my head as I read the second and final entry that ended with, "Should anyone find what may be my last words, tell Isabella in the old country that her frilly bonneted face will be the last image I see as my eyes close. Still hopeful."



It was signed, "Levi Strauss."

But this story of deprivation and disaster does have a happy ending. Our dear friend Levi lived to marry his dear Isabella, travel the breadth of this country, invent a commodity that clothed many a gold rush prospector and farmer, and prosper beyond his wildest dreams.

You might ask how I know this. How else can we explain his name ending up emblazoned across generations of blue jeaned posteriors?